


Choose

by Born In Captivity- Ineligible to Release (Jashasedai)



Series: Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers, Doubles of Every Character, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 11:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7616257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jashasedai/pseuds/Born%20In%20Captivity-%20Ineligible%20to%20Release
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU where a secret species is used as Racing Drivers, what happens to the humans who want to race?</p><p>Michael has an unusual arrangement with Ferrari, regarding his Tame Racing Driver, but is it enough?</p><p>If you haven't read the summary, read that first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the Tame Racing Driver AU. 
> 
> Thanks to my betas, Mike and Marginaliana. Marginaliana made sure the story was understandable, and kept everything on track, and donated some brilliant lines.

**1998**

Michael screamed in delight when he was squeezed back into his seat, the acceleration trying to rip his hands off the wheel, push him into the car door, and have its way with him. He pushed into the curve, swinging past Shoe on the outside, and taking control of the next corner. Shoe was forced to move in behind him to catch the apex right, and put Michael into the lead coming down the straight. The two cars were nearly identical. Near enough that the fraction of a second Michael had jealously pried out of Shoe's grasp put him across the line first. His breath exploded in a laugh. "Take a look at that, buddy." He chuckled to himself, then grinned when he caught himself thinking in gestures.

Shoe sent long suffering patience back, with a slight tone of a sneering head jerk towards a clearly inferior opponent. The message, 'You may be improving,' imbedded in the grudging retort.

Michael grinned. Granted, he had lost their previous 3 races around the Ferrari track, but he'd won the race before that, and by more of a margin.

He sent a picture of Jeremy Clarkson. 'You're becoming a slow old man.'

Shoe sent back a surge of pure affront.

Michael patted him on the back. His team Manager came up to him. "Nice time, Schumacher. Get it back to its room. It's going to be racing tomorrow, and we want it well rested."

"Sir, I can race tomorrow. Did you see that move at the end? I beat him. I'm beating him 1 in every 4 races. I can..."

"It is still winning 3 races for every 1 you win. That's bad odds. No, it will race tomorrow. Have it ready."

He walked away.

Michael kicked the tire of the car. Damn! He'd been counting on this race. He wasn't getting enough in-race experience. He was a great racer - he could have been the best in the world. He had thought being partnered with Shoe would advance his career. It was, but most of the races won under his name weren't his wins. He was racing less than he had with Benetton or Jordan, which meant he wasn't progressing like the other racers he should have been beating. He kicked the tire again. This was tanking him.

He felt the eyes on him. His shoulders slumped. He turned. "I'm sorry. It's not you I get mad at. I love watching you drive… but I want to drive, too."

Shoe tilted his helmet. He remembered their race minutes before. He remembered watching Michael drive away everyday after training. Michael had an incredible appetite for driving. Even Racing Drivers had to stand still sometimes, and Michael was human. He needed to do the sleep thing, with laying down and viewing races in his head.

Michael sent him a flash of his everyday life as they walked to the garage. How off-track driving wasn't the same. How he couldn't drive all the time. How he wanted competition, to race more, to get better. How he'd always been the one in the car before his tenure at Ferrari. Only now he was sharing his time with Shoe.

I don't begrudge you your time, I just don't want them to begrudge me mine. I wish Racing Drivers could race on their own, with everyone knowing who they are. I wish I could race against you for real. He couldn't say it aloud. It was dangerous saying things like that. The industry benefited quite a bit from the Racing Drivers and the secrecy – if it wasn't profitable, they wouldn't keep them.

He took Shoe back to his suite. It had a closet, a fitness room, a video screen with Shoe's own races showing on it in a loop. The two of them went through the physical training prescribed by Shoe's medics; Michael went through the same workout every day, too. When they headed to the showers his hair hung stringy and damp in his face. He drew in slow, deep breaths, making sure to exhale longer than he inhaled. Shoe waited, smiling, beside the door to the lavatory. His bare shoulders were glistening faintly, and he moved energetically.

They showered side by side. It wasn't weird for Michael anymore; he hadn't ever been as bothered by the doppelgänger effect as some of the drivers had. Blonde hair, a gorgeous physique and green eyes (or brown, in Shoe's case) Why shouldn't there be two such perfect specimens in the world?

Shoe talked over his technique during the race. It was better than telemetry. He could pick out flaws, strengths, and explain better what Michael needed to do than any machine generated numbers. He could show Michael what felt right, what felt wrong. He could reach out during the race, within their range, and correct his technique on the track. From time to time, Michael had wondered if Shoe hadn't been doing more than telling. He'd never tried to resist Shoe's advice, but there were times, rarely, just once or twice, when he'd sensed that if he hadn't been open to it, his body would have answered Shoe’s commands instead. He didn't think about Shoe taking control of him without his consent. Couldn't think about that.

Instead he talked to Shoe about the race. The Belgian Grand Prix was going to be pivotal in the points. The win would push them into a strong position. Shoe didn't really care about the points, he cared about which Racing Drivers he was going to face, track conditions, how the car was doing. He had already been briefed, but Michael saw him do better when they went over it several times. They would do it again tomorrow before the race.

He gestured Shoe towards the doors of the closet where he slept. "Time for me to go, my friend. We both need rest."

Shoe made a winding down noise. It filled Michael with sadness.

He shook his head. "I can't stay longer tonight. We both need to be at peak performance tomorrow."

Shoe knew better than to argue. Michael wouldn't put up with it. Instead he nodded. Then tilted his helmet. Would Michael come spend time with him after the race? Even if they won? Michael saw a picture of himself popping champagne corks with the crew, Shoe being taken to his suite by another handler, alone with the high of the race. Then a picture of himself slipping into Shoe's suite, the two of them gesturing, laughing, the sky getting light.

Michael swallowed a lump that had appeared in his throat. He nodded. "Yes, I'll come. Even if we win."

The next day it poured rain. The track was a lake. They were both fabulous drivers, but in the wet, Michael's record shot up to 3-2, even higher in conditions like this. Their Manager approached him to the side of the locker room. "I know what you're thinking, Schumacher. Your record is a little higher in the rain..."

Michael shook his head. "No, sir. Let him drive. He's keyed up for it." He didn't say that he didn't feel like taking the only thing Shoe had, outside of that room. Maybe he'd feel competitive again tomorrow. Not today.

  
During the race, the rain was slowing the other drivers down. Shoe was unable to lap McLaren's David Coulthard, given the visibility and the uncertain traction. "Why isn't that idiot letting him pass?" Michael growled, watching the monitors in the pit. He was wearing a crew helmet and face mask. Amazing how no one could tell it was him just because they switched the helmet. McLaren's driver was NOT giving any quarter, even though Shoe's passing wouldn't have any effect on his 8th place position. The rooster tail of spray from the McLaren was covering the entire Ferrari.

Finally, McLaren got their act together and had their car get out of the way, but in the worst way possible. Michael was gone before his body had time to scream that Coulthard was braking. He was behind the wheel of the Ferrari, cutting a good line on the corner, momentarily content to stay behind the human driver until an opportunity came, when the spray dropped to nothing and the blue rear end of the McLaren came rocketing out of the fog. "He's braking." Michael's own voice echoed in his head, coming through Shoe's ears. He jammed the steering wheel to the side, muscles relaxing consciously into the inevitable. He slammed against the harness, losing his breath for a moment; the car wrenched and tears came to his eyes as she screamed, strained, and broke. The right front wheel disappeared even faster than his enhanced senses could see, and with a painful torque, the two cars separated.

_He braked on the corner._

_Why would he brake on a corner?_

_What kind of idiot brakes on a corner with another car right behind them? In zero visibility?!_

The exchange was so fast, so intimately shared, he never knew who said what, or if there had been a hair's breadth of difference between who they were at that moment.

He stayed in the car, helping Shoe fight the loss of the wheel and the rain, until almost back at the pit. Then he faded back into his own body.

The car stopped and Michael was on the side of the pit, out of the camera's view, gesturing hugely at Shoe before the car stopped.

If you could snarl with gestures, Michael was snarling. He couldn’t go straighten that failure out until Shoe was out of view of the cameras. "Get out. Get out. Get out of that car. NOW."

Shoe pushed his way out, every line of his body rigid.

"Get your helmet off." Michael wrenched Shoe to the side of the pit, wrenched his own helmet off, pressed him against a wall where another crew member held him out of camera view, then stalked down the pit lane, his Manager following him, trying to calm him down.

He wasn't having any of it.

The McLaren crew wasn't interested in letting him have a piece of Coulthard, either, though, so he ended up just screaming at him past the men keeping them apart.

He walked away clenching tears behind his jaw. That idiot didn't even warrant a Racing Driver. If he'd cost Michael his...If he'd killed Shoe to due to second rate inattention...If Shoe had paid for Coulthard trying to keep ahold of his damned 8th place, paid with his life, no amount of pit crew would have kept Michael from settling the debt. He wouldn't have had a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What ends would you go to if you lost your best friend?


	2. Chapter 2

**1999**

Ferrari was pissed that Michael had broken his leg so publicly during the crash at Silverstone. He shifted. If he held his leg straight out in front of him, it stretched his quads too much, and he couldn't sit under a table; if he tried to lay it on the ankle, his hip began to ache in moments; if he propped it on a chair next to his, he looked like he was reclining seductively on a chaise lounge. The reporters would make hay of that – it fit his image as an arrogant bad boy – but it was not suitable for meetings with the owners. So he leaned it a little off to the side, though this wasn't comfortable, either; it made him lean too far back in his chair, and weakened his position.

"We'll just tell the press the injury wasn't as bad as we first thought." One of the owners' reps waved his hand. "We'll give him two weeks off, the driver will drive and we will minimise interviews and public appearances."

Jean Todt, the team Manager,  frowned. "And the explanation for a crewman in the pit with a broken leg will be...?"

"Of course Michael will have to stay out of the pit. He will give orders via the headset," another rep said.

The Manager glanced at Michael. "No, that won't work, either. Michael needs to see what's going on in case the headset frequency is compromised. We always have him come across as if he's actually driving, and the Racing Driver follows the instructions."

"If it's merely a matter of watching, we can arrange a monitor in a separate room."

Michael leaned forward, over the top edge of his cast. His Manager put a hand up, and every bit like a trained Racing Driver, Michael sat back.

"You listen while I make myself understood to you. If Michael isn't there, I'm not sending Shoe out. There is too much that can go wrong with a Racing Driver if their handler is not on scene. I am not putting at risk my Racing Driver, my crew, the car or the other personnel on the track. There is a reason Racing Drivers have to have matches, and it's not, as you may think, to smirk at the camera and recite the party line. It will NOT go out without Michael there."

Michael's mouth twisted. You're supposed to be on our side, he wanted to hiss. You're supposed to make sure they do what's best for Shoe and I, so we can keep racing. He'll be perfectly under control if I'm not in the pit. What are you doing to us?

His Manager patted the table in front of him, casting an expressionless glance at him. Shoe would have called it 'this car is running fine' and what it meant was, don't fuck anything up, don't try to tweak, don't ask again. Michael was getting very, very good at reading gestures, even on other humans, though theirs weren't standardised in the way the RDs' were.

How can you chain us down like this? Michael's jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His stomach ached and he could feel his lunch churning within him.

They left the room and it wasn't until they were in Todt's car back to the facility that he turned angrily to the man he'd thought would never betray his trust.

Todt put his hand up again. Michael was going to plow right through this time, so the older man started talking instead of letting him rant. "No, you can NOT be in a pit. No, I will not let Shoe drive without a handler. No, I am not costing you your career. Do you think even one tenth of the handlers chosen for Racing Drivers get the opportunities you've had? Almost every handler whose Racing Driver is on an F1, F2, or F3 team is chosen for his face, and not a single other thing. If he happens to be from a racing background, because the breeders have a talented colt and some boy's father is encouraged to involve him in racing, they have all of them reached their limit in racing, usually long before they are men. Michael, you..."

He stopped speaking for a moment. "You are the best. Not just statistically. Not you and Shoe. If they weren't here, Michael, you would be the best racing driver in the world. Most human racing drivers couldn't hope to drive in F1. Not even most Racing Drivers. You are better than any human in F1, Michael. And you are better than most of the Racing Drivers. Ferrari would be lucky to have you, even without Shoe. With him, though, you are just a bonus. The other handlers would never dream of asking to share their matches' races. In some ways, Ferrari would prefer one or the other of you." He looked away.

"In a lot of ways, that is what they would prefer. He was expensive, and you, you are human. You may as well be a spare part. They've got their Racing Driver. You want me to show them they don't need you for Shoe to drive? You want me to prove you are expendable? To assuage a few lost months? You'll never drive for Ferrari again, Michael, and they will be glad to be rid of the problem. Michael Schumacher will keep winning, year after year, but your career will be over, your driving life will be done. If I let them put him on the track without you."

They'd never let him drive again. He didn't begrudge Shoe's racing time, and he didn't want them begrudging his, but he knew that they did. Of course they did, he was only there so they could pretend Shoe wasn't a slave.

Todt stopped the car.

"Don't push your recovery. Now go see your Racing Driver." He seemed about to say something else, so Michael didn't open the car door. "He feels what you feel, does he? And you him?"

Michael opened his mouth, but it was dry and nothing came out. Jean Todt knew, even though Michael had been so careful to hide it, and even so, he really was still protecting them.

"When you broke your leg, he started squealing. Like a dry engine. And when he hit Coulthard in Belgium, you went slack and didn't hear anyone until he was back in the pit. I've seen a lot of Racing Drivers and their matches, I've seen things like that before, Michael, and I've never seen a connection like yours. So think about this – what will his life be like without you there? Now go, no one will be giving him painkillers. Don't you give him any, they won't work and he won't thank you for them, just help him through it. Get out of my car."

Michael went to comfort Shoe through weeks and weeks of neither of them getting to race. If it came to the loss of a few weeks of racing and the points that came with them, or the loss of Shoe forever – of course he knew what he had to choose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you give up your lifelong dream for your best friend?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains mention of stud practices for sentient beings. It's the few paragraphs at the end. You don't like it, don't read it.

**2008**

"Ben Collins is The Stig."

The statement echoed down the corridor. Michael slowed his walk. He looked over at Sebastian; the boy was beaming, like he was well on his way to earning some reward. Michael was a little stunned to hear the joy in his voice. Exultation, even.

"Mark Webber told me, he met him on Top Gear, and he recognized him. Of course he would, it's not hard to recognize a man you know, even in Nomex. It's just, 'Oh, there's Ben Collins with a helmet on. Naturally." He lifted his chin, as if he'd made the discovery himself. As if he'd made the discovery and started spreading it around. Instead of just spreading around hearsay.

Michael felt his stomach tighten and his heart beat faster. He loved Sebastian, he really did love the boy like his own brother. His mouth twisted against what he would have to say next, and what it could cause.

"Someone leaked pictures of you and Sunny together, Sebastian. The company is going to have to put him down."

The color drained from the boy's face. The back of his hand went to his mouth and he cast his eyes side to side down the corridor, trying to decide where to run first. To Sunny's stable or to his coach's office.

"Unpleasant fate to contemplate, isn't it?" Michael barked.

Sebastian looked at him sharply.

"Don't make light of a fate you wouldn't wish on any good man. It's disgusting."

The boy's eyebrows were drawn, and then climbed up his forehead as Michael's point touched his heart. Michael started to walk again. Sebastian followed with his head down.

"If someone found out about Ben, they wouldn't really put his Racing Driver down, would they?"

Michael shook his head in disbelief. He had come a long way in the years since his first conversation with Jeremy Clarkson about Racing Drivers. He'd seen many things he couldn't have imagined, then. Michael was older now than Clarkson had been, and Sebastian was almost as young as Michael had been. It was time to pass on some much needed clarity. He sliced the air with a hand.

"Yes. Yes. They would. That is what happens. That is what they would do. What did you think happened?"

Sebastian didn't even try to justify his thinking. That was a good sign. He knew that the companies couldn’t afford to risk leaving Racing Drivers alive when their matches couldn’t drive anymore. The public would NOT allow the continuation of the systematic slavery.

"Ben Collins isn't really a Racing Driver, though. He just pretends to be, on that show. It's not as though he could have really made it, so he should be glad he got this easy ride. Why would they even bother to find a Racing Driver for him to imprint on?"

"Why did you start racing? Do you think that was chance? Sponsors and advantages and then one day, it just happens that Ferrari has a Racing Driver who looks just like you? They went out and found one for you, right? He just happens to be wonderfully skilled? How lucky for you. At least the one they found to drive for you wasn't second rate."

It hurt him to make his brother think about these things. Like it had hurt him to think about them. To realize that it wasn't Shoe who was the spare part, it was him, he who'd been carefully groomed, guided to Ferrari's doorstep. Every bit as much a trained slave as Shoe was. His accomplishments had never mattered. What made it worse was that he had been the best human driver out there, and no one would ever know it. The car world credited his success to Shoe, and the public credited Shoe's success to him. Only a double handful of people would ever know which was which. Or that there was a difference.

He thought about Ben Collins. Ben was a genuinely good driver – as far as humans went he was among the best. He couldn't keep up in the world of Racing Drivers, though. In a lot of ways, Racing Drivers ruined careers. There were a lot of Racing Drivers whose matches couldn't drive competitively in even lower racing classes. There were a lot of human drivers who would never be reckoned among the best because the Racing Drivers took all the top spots. Of the 100 best drivers, only 4 had Racing Driver matches.

Conversely, the numbers going the other direction were shocking. Of the 100 best Racing Drivers, they took up the top spots in F1, F2, F3, NASCAR, Rally, and rumor had it Ricky Carmichael's spot in moto-cross was due to a Racing Driver who'd seen a motorcycle on a track and never looked at another car.

Of those 100 Racing Drivers, every one of their lives depended on their match being able to perform, every one of them was kept in a locked room when their handlers weren't with them. Every one of them was property owned by a company. Every one of them was able to think and reason and feel and communicate. Every one of them had been raised in a cage. Every one of them lived only to race and was denied every other freedom.

Sebastian stopped walking and looked at the floor. "Michael," he said, quietly. "If something happens to me, what are they really going to do with my Racing Driver? Are they going to put Sunny down?"

"Sunny has been very successful. He probably has a life waiting for him after he retires. Put out to pasture." Michael couldn't summon any enthusiasm for the idea.

He hated when Shoe got sent to stud. The first year, when Michael hadn't really been dealing with the non-driving handling as much, he hadn't paid any attention to Shoe's absence for his annual stud trip. The second year, he'd sent him away on the senior handler's assurance that it was standard practice and he shouldn't concern himself.

Shoe had come back with electrical burns of varying severity, on his back and his legs. And one weeping open blister all on the inside of one hand. The senior handler said it was typical, that the wounds were a little worse than the year before, but that the first times a young Racing Driver went to stud they usually had to be taught what to do.

The next year, Michael had gone with Shoe. When he'd seen what happened, he'd forcefully altered the arrangement, and the senior handler had been fired with a black mark on his reputation. As their status rose, Ferrari wanted to negotiate more stud trips. Attending more than one a year stressed Shoe and Michael too much to race, though, so after that, Michael shipped out 3 specimen jars a year, and Shoe stopped needing 3 weeks of rehabilitation every 12 months.

Michael wondered if Sebastian had gone and watched Sunny...forced into a cage with a female, and both of them cattle prodded until they did as they were ordered. He tried to shake the memory out of his head. He had made other arrangements for Shoe, but had any other matches thought about it? Had they noticed how much their Racing Drivers hated them afterwards? Had any seen the conditions the so-called mares were kept in?

He thought about Shoe's future if anything happened to him. And he envied Jeremy Clarkson. If he started banking specimen jars more diligently now, Ferrari might not be as interested in putting Shoe out to pasture. If it came to a shot in the arm or a lifetime of cattle prods and never driving again, he knew what Shoe would choose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you let your best friend die to save them a worse fate?


	4. Chapter 4

**2009**

Michael had always been uncomfortable about the way the other handlers dealt with Shoe, the little abuses that were considered everyday practice in the stables and on the tracks all over the world. It was among the first things he ever mentioned when Jeremy Clarkson had engaged him in off the record conversation about Racing Drivers. He hated seeing the Racing Drivers treated worse than animals. But he never thought about it as a problem that could be solved until he'd had the conversation with Jeremy, all those years ago. When Jeremy had asked him calculating questions, never revealing anything, just making Michael take a look at what he already knew was going on, with Shoe, and with other Racing Drivers. Then he'd started stepping up and taking more responsibility. It was a long time until his next conversation with Jeremy. By then he was Shoe's exclusive handler, and he'd learned things that made every day a ride on a knife's edge.

He learned how dangerous it was to challenge the system. To openly know what the companies prefered to pretend was hidden. He'd spent nearly 15 years making the changes he could, in how matches and handlers dealt with the Racing Drivers, and remembering with whom he met resistance, and learning how things went when the companies had their way.

He had run into Jeremy right after the rumours about Ben's identity had started circulating, but before the whole thing had blown up into a fiasco. He'd given Jeremy his personal cell number.

A carefully calculated 3 days later, he texted: "Having pr problems? Let's get together and talk."

The house was dark and quiet; the two met sat in the study, with a single lamp on, and some expensive alcohol sweating in glasses between them. Michael sat with his leg crossed over his knee, leaning back like he would for an interview. Collected, confident, cold. Jeremy sat spread legged, casual, his face open, as if this meeting was a run-of-the-mill encounter with a friend. As if they weren't playing a game that could change the way of the world.

Michael wouldn't have liked to play poker with Clarkson. His face was mobile, never still, always showing something. Always showing something, but only what he wanted you to see. His face flickered through emotions, following his own inner patter, but so fast, how could you tell if the flickering smile was because he was pleased at what you'd just said, or pleased with the little retort he'd come up with to counter it? A constant stream of information that completely muddied and concealed the information you might actually need. The man's face was a lawyer, burying you in too much paperwork to sort through in time for your court date.

But Michael wasn't interested in playing fair. "I hear you are having PR problems."

"So you said in your text. Are you curious, or do you have some other reason for wanting to meet?" Jeremy picked up his glass and swirled the drink.

"The Stig's identity is all over the Internet. Unless you really are employing Tiff Nedell." He smirked. "Eventually it will become impossible for you to maintain any air of mystery around him. I have a proposal for how you might handle it, when it happens."

Jeremy's face had registered mirth, anger, surprise, sadness, and curiosity as Michael spoke. All of it came through in different measures, sprinkled through his speech. "It's nice to know we've warranted Ferrari's concern."

Michael felt his own face registering heat. It hadn't occurred to him that Jeremy would think he was here on behalf of the company. Did Jeremy really believe Michael was here to threaten him? Even Ferrari wouldn’t be so extravagant as to use Michael Schumacher as an enforcer. "I'm not such a company man as that." He stopped himself. He probably was, in almost every way but the one that was relevant now. "Not when it comes to this."

Jeremy read the anger in his eyes and he grinned, as though he was becoming even more friendly. Tightening on his armor.

"I will tell you my proposition and you will decide." Michael's fingers dug into his knee through his trousers for a moment as he drew up the courage it would take to say this. "When you decide it is time to allay suspicion about the Stig's identity, it might be convenient to have someone else to point suspicion towards. The Stig is meant to be the benchmark for precision driving. If you were to suggest, even claim that the Stig was a world famous racing driver, one who was unmatched in the record books, it would draw attention away from what you would prefer people did not see. It would put a light on what you do want people to see, Racing Drivers as people, not faceless tools." The public, of course, already assumed the Stig was just some man. Claiming Ben Collins was the Stig would create a lot of confusion when Top Gear eventually revealed the nature of Racing Drivers.

The car companies were barely tolerant of Jeremy flaunting the existence of Racing Drivers. They were careful to hide evidence of Racing Drivers, even disposing of them, if something happened to compromise the match’s public ability to race. It wasn’t the public that saw them as objects, it was the companies.

"People might not be happy to see a face on the Stig. He's pretty popular as an anonymous mystery. People might not want to see him getting revealed as being behind a lot of world records. People get angry about what they don't want to see. I don't know if Top Gear would survive the ratings hit that might come. And ratings, as you know, are big business." Jeremy took a drink and smiled, then frowned into the glass. It wasn’t, of course, the show Michael was being warned about. He had taken the danger into account when he’d made the phone call. He knew it as well as Jeremy did.

Michael leaned forward. "Since the day you and I first spoke about what makes a good driver, I have been moving towards this mark. I think you have been, too. I think the people who don't like it should be encouraged to look at it as a joke. They can't take you too seriously if you, say, reveal the Stig's identity and then he does a lap and takes entirely the wrong route? It would make people who don't want you showing the Stig's face think it's not really the Stig, that you're just joking out to amuse them. Those who want to see the Stig's face, though, will suddenly be thinking 'Aha, what if he really WAS just a man behind that helmet?' Then they would be thoughtful about what there is to be seen."

Jeremy's eyes had narrowed a little. "It'd sure be good for a laugh if we could get a retired F1 champion, for example, to give us an interview and then stop half way through the lap and walk away from the car in disgust."

"I might just know one that would choose to agree to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What would you risk to save your best friend from suffering?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mention of death of a character, and oblique reference to RL things which are not noble, just terrible. Timeline intentionally twisted.

**2009**

Jeremy, James and Richard were in the pub they liked to go to after shooting. Richard was telling a story and Jeremy was gleefully interrupting him. James was texting Ben with a question about a shoot they'd done months before, but were still planning on using. They had to keep up the facade that they were on the outs with him, publicly, but anonymity only flows one direction, and this had been inevitable. They had to keep the public believing their star racing driver had abandoned them, but Ben had also been one of Stig's primary handlers, and too, while Stig could drive, he couldn't act, and things like the upcoming scene Jeremy was planning where Stig stared down an animatronic T-Rex would have to have Ben onboard.

He set the phone down on the table and started shaking Richard. "Chaps, look." He pointed to the television over the bar. It was... reporting on an accident Michael Schumacher had been in. They all got up and crowded close to the bar. Richard groaned and turned away when they mentioned the brain damage induced coma. Jeremy put a hand on his shoulder, eyes still glued to the television. The reporter announced the racing driver was conscious, but paralyzed and unable to speak. Richard spun back around, and Jeremy and James exchanged drawn glances. None of them said what they all instantly knew. It couldn’t be just a coincidence. Not so soon after Michael had gone on Top Gear as the Stig.

Jeremy waited until it was plausible that his call had not been prompted by the news, and in his famous bullish way, got himself an invitation to visit. He sat alone in a chair in a rarely used drawing room, on the north end of the huge house, where the butler had left him. His phone was out and he paged occasionally as though he were quite occupied by it until Michael's wife, Corinna, walked into the room.

Jeremy stood, offering her two gentle kisses and his deepest sympathy. "When I heard, I just knew I had to come offer my support. Michael is a good friend."

She murmured her appreciation and led him back towards Michael's room. They were met at the door by two men in scrubs. There were signs posted on the door directing visitors not to smoke, and that metal objects would interfere with the machinery. One of the men asked Jeremy to leave his car keys and cell phone in a bowl outside the room. Then he waved a metal detection wand over Jeremy. "Go on in. You won't be interfering with the system now."

Jeremy's mouth curled at the subtle threat. Even the risk of the companies doing this to him as well wouldn’t keep him from interfering with the companies’ plans for the racing drivers. "Wouldn't dream of it, mate."

The room was more comfortable than a hospital room. By now, he'd been home recovering for several months. Corinna moved forward, next to the bed and leaned forward to smile warmly at the man sitting up against the pillows, hands adjusting and smoothing the blankets, his hair, and the pajamas he wore, making things more comfortable without even a conscious thought that she was doing it. There was such warmth between the two that Jeremy experienced a moment of doubt. He moved slowly into the room, but stopped several feet short of the bed. There weren't any bruises or visible wounds on the blonde, not after all this time, but there was a sense that something was wrong. His eyes drifted to Jeremy and widened a bit in recognition. He had brown eyes.

Jeremy turned his face away and didn't have to fake the shudder that ran through him. "Corinna, could I have a moment?"

She saw the way he was hiding his face and came over to pat him on the arm. "Would you like some coffee?"

He nodded, still keeping his face away. "Please."

The door clicked shut behind her. Jeremy had scanned the room for cameras, and the only one he could see was beside the headboard. It wouldn't have been obvious to anyone who hadn't been quite conversant with concealed cameras. He nonchalantly put his coat over it and sat down beside the bed. From his pocket he pulled the keys. Made from super dense plastic, they didn't set off the metal detector. He held them up and smiled when the brown eyes focused on them with laser intensity.

"Hello, Shoe."

He tucked the keys into the paralyzed Racing Driver's hand. Then he took a breath and raised his own hands. A decade out of practice, he would never forget how to do this.

'Are they treating you well?' he signed. 'Blink twice for thumbs up, once for thumbs down.'

His stomach clenched painfully when he felt a warm flow of gratitude. He was shocked that he knew Shoe for who he was. He was so glad someone was there to communicate with Shoe.

The feeling was so different, the voice so unfamiliar, and yet the connection filled an aching longing he had been denying for so long.

He swallowed. 'I am here to help you.' He didn't mean to, but he must have let a thought slip through, wondering where Michael was.

The tap opened and a torrent of apologetic sorrow filed Jeremy's soul. The despair was roiling and bottomless, even though Shoe was trying hard to tighten the valve on how much he sent. The news wasn't unexpected. Jeremy had braced himself for this possibility when he'd heard the broadcast.

There had been others who'd tried to tell – Jeremy didn't fancy himself the only one to object to the treatment of Racing Drivers – mostly ending up discredited, sanity called into question, or shown to be so bitter they'd say anything. Some had been more ruthlessly silenced. It was always hard to trace the cause, but people tended to forget that what Jeremy did for a living was journalism. He was a good investigator.

_Shoe was hauled out of his cupboard. The handlers were never rough with him like this. Michael would have been enraged. They would have been out on their ears._

_He felt a needle pierce his skin at the back of his neck and his muscles turned to jelly, too relaxed to hold him up. They caught him as he collapsed. They dropped him in the back of a van. Unable to move with the motion, or even resist the g-force, he rolled and slid around the floor, crashed into the walls as the van turned hard into corners._

_He picked up Michael's touch, and latched on, feeling the flow of his match's confusion and anger and then the bloom of fear when he felt Shoe's touch. He tried to choke down his own outraged bewilderment, and sent Michael confidence._

_Two men pulled him onto the gritty warehouse floor and held him slack between them. He could see Michael held similarly between two men, forced into kneeling on the floor. Another man wrenched Shoe's helmet off, and Shoe was unable to make his loose muscles fight back. One of them was making their weird animal revving noises at Michael. Shoe reached into Michael's mind and pulled out the understanding that they were here because Michael had... worn a white jumpsuit, and taken his helmet off. It made no sense – Michael's job was to be the face behind a Racing Driver's helmet. He hadn't raced for another team, hadn't done anything that Shoe could think of as wrong._

_"I unmasked Racing Drivers." Michael sent to him. "I told people that matches are just pretending to be their Racing Drivers. The companies are doing this because of what I did."_

_The man leaned very close to Michael's face. Shoe couldn't hear him, but he could hear Michael's understanding._

_"You think Racing Drivers are the same as people? You think we're no better than they are? They're just tools. And a tool can be used however its owner wants to use it. You think this is just about driving around a track? You want to give our world to them? Then you won't mind trading places with him. A Racing Driver is worthless without a match to make them at least a little tame." He moved his hand by Michael's head, and the alarm that flowed into Shoe made him aware that for some reason the thing he was holding was a real threat. Was he going to TAZE Michael?! "But how will we ever explain why he doesn't talk? Why he can't act like a human being? I have an idea," he said slowly, as if they would believe he'd just thought of it. "If he's paralyzed, no one will wonder at all." He jerked his head at someone behind Shoe. There was a gentle touch of metal on the back of Shoe’s head, and then an explosive numbness as something sharp pierced his neck and severed his spinal cord._

_His physical senses went black, but his connection to Michael was still sharp. He could feel Michael's horror and his sorrow._

_"I'm sorry, Shoe. I didn't know this would happen to you! I wanted to protect you. I'm sorry. I made the wrong choice. I'm sorry."_

_He heard the man through Michael's mind._

_"You wanted to be a Racing Driver. Racing Drivers whose matches can't race get put down."_

_"I'm sorry. I made the wrong choice. I'm sor..."_

_Then the connection was gone, too, and the whole world was gone._

Jeremy was cradling Shoe when the memory ended. The mental touch they were sharing was nowhere near what a Racing Driver and a match shared, but Shoe had found the pathways Blue had left in his mind and connected to them as well as he could manage.

The sharing made his memories of Blue rise to the surface, made Jeremy ache in a way he'd forgotten. He stroked the young Racing Driver's hair.

Shoe wanted to help Jeremy protect the Racing Drivers. Michael had helped, he would help. Michael had been afraid at the end, but Shoe knew it had been a result of the right choices.

It took a long time to give Jeremy the information, took effort to hold onto an ill fitting connection that long, and they were both shaking and pale when it was done. The Racing Driver's head sagged back onto the pillow, and Jeremy put a hand on his shoulder, offering his gratitude. The things the Racing Driver had known about the place they'd come from contained several helpful clues to the mystery Jeremy had been trying desperately to solve for so long.

"How can I help you?" Jeremy sent. "Do you want me to get you out of here? Do you want...to shut down?"

Shoe sent a picture of Corinna.

_He could hear her voice as he regained consciousness._

_“Michael, love, wake up, love.”_

_Someone he knew, someone he could trust. He looked at her and smiled up into her eyes. He was in a hospital room. She was leaning over him, her hand on his bicep, smiling. It was so nice that she was concerned about him. A look of confusion crinkled around her eyes. She leaned closer, taking his chin in her hand and turning his face from side to side, looking at his eyes. She was frowning, now. The hope he'd seen flickered and faded. She leaned back a little. There were tears in her eyes, now, and she hesitated, and then laid her face on his chest and sobbed._

_He wanted to put his arm around her, but nothing below his shoulders would move. He became really aware that something was wrong as the two of them lay there on the hospital bed. The gash in his mind where Michael had been hurt him. His neck hurt, his body ached, his skin felt dry and he couldn’t relieve the discomfort by shifting._

_Corinna leaned up, and did nothing to dry her wet cheeks. “Where is he?” She whispered. Her eyes didn’t leave his. He couldn’t answer her.  
Someone behind her did._

_“He’s right here, Corinna. He’ll always be right here. Ferrari will make sure he stays safe and healthy, he’s done so much for the company over the years, we owe him that. We’ll make sure Michael Schumacher, our very own F1 champion, gets the best care.”_

_Her face did the thing Michael’s did when the car broke down during one of his races. She had her back to whomever was speaking, and she stilled her face before turning around. Her hand sought out Shoe's._

_"I thank you for that. Please, this is the first time he's been conscious. Please let me be with my...my husband."_

_Motion Shoe could only hear, and then a door closed. She turned back to him. "We can't let them know I know. I don't think they'll let you live if we don't. You have to stay with me. I can't let them...he wouldn't have wanted me to let them take you away." She squeezed his hand. "We have to pretend, for Michael, yes?" She nodded at him, urging him to agree. He blinked in agreement._

_She kissed his lips. He didn't know why she did, but it made him feel good._

Neither of them could ever forget that he wasn't who she loved, but she took very good care of him, and he knew why Michael loved her. He was all she had left of Michael and she and their family was all he had left of Michael. He couldn't make them feel his love, but he could be there for them. Because Michael had given his life to protect Shoe, and now living for Michael was all Shoe could give him back.

He was proud that he had made this choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is a best friend worth dying for? Worth living for?

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> Real People don't belong to me.
> 
> This story is fiction and is no reflection on anyone in it. The story does belong to me, as does the AU in which it is set.
> 
> Please comment, I like comments.


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